When All Other Lights Have Gone Out
by Avelera
Summary: A Dark AU. What if Sam had killed Gollum before Frodo claimed the Ring? What if the Dark Lord claimed the Ring and made Frodo his servant? And what if his servant’s first charge was to punish the Fellowship? HIATUS
1. In the Land of Mordor

Title: Before the Seat of the Dark Lord  
(a/n: I'm not terribly fond of this title, suggestions are welcome)  
  
Author: Avelera  
  
Rating: PG-13 for blood, torture and anguish. No sex, swear-words or war scenes.  
  
  
Disclaimer: All of the recognizable characters belong to JRR Tolkien and anyone else who has legal rights to his works and characters. The plot is mine and all quotes are taken from the Lord of the Rings books.   
  
Summary: An AU fic. What if Sam had killed Gollum before Frodo claimed the Ring? What if the Dark Lord claimed the Ring and made Frodo his servant? And what if his servant's first charge was to torture the Fellowship?  
  
Author Note: The purpose of this fic is not to torture or molest the members of the Fellowship for my own sadistic pleasure. Torture and angst were the original purpose of the fic but it has developed (I hope) since then and now contains more mental anguish then physical. The song mentioned is the Song of the Valar mentioned in Silmarillion. Dwimordene uses it with amazing success and I would be lying if I said that my brief use of it was not inspired by her wonderful work.  
This is an AU so movie-goers and other people who don't know how the series ends: This turn of events does not actually happen. Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated and are the fuel that causes me to write. Constructive criticism is welcomed also.   
  
This was originally supposed to be a songfic for "Name" by the Goo Goo Dolls, then for "Shackled" by Vertical Horizon. Now its neither but the songs still fit and they're where I got the ideas in the first place.   
  
We set our scene on Mt. Doom, in the land of Mordor, moments before Frodo claims the Ring as his own....  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
There was a pause as the whole world held its breath. Clutching to the side of Mt. Doom Sam vaguely felt the gravel digging into his unprotected flesh leaving sooty marks but he paid it no mind. The entire world was centered on this moment. His crouched shadow flickered across a small wrinkled wreck. Lantern eyes dimmed in death, clutching hands seizing up as the triumphantly claimed the ruinous body, howling their triumph at which it had long been denied. A black cavity just below the collarbone, red slashes across, puncturing through the skin stretched to the limit over jutting ribs. Gollum dead, but Gollum mattered no more, only the Song mattered. The Song was the only thing that had ever mattered. Torn sleeve scraped over his brow becoming saturated with blood. Sam stared wonderingly at the maroon stain spreading across his sleeve. Ah yes, of course, he thought vaguely, Gollum's nails scratching tearing the skin in his death throes, the brief and blessed silence as the body fell limp. Now there was only the Mr. Frodo and the Ring and the Song. The Song just out of hearing, reaching a fevered pitch until Sam wondered that all of Mordor did not come crashing down from its intensity.   
  
Behind his eyelids a black figure sat on the edge of a knife. No not sat, stood there in front of him. The master outlined against the pitted rock, cloak and hair whipped by the oily wind and beneath him the hissing lava tempting tempting tempting.... A fountain of molten rock flashed red outlining innocent locks, throwing a bloody glow onto his chalk-white features. Ruby fire glinted between white knuckled fingers. Throw it; throw it, throwitthrowitthrowitthrowit..... The darkness, end the darkness! Another spurt, red light glinting in his master's eyes. No pause between the beats of the Song, the music sawing, humming, screaming! End it, oh Master! Cast it down! Screaming, oh, end the screaming!  
  
The arm came up... aye, aye! End it! The music, the ceaseless sound! So loud, so frantic, his master's were words almost out of hearing.  
  
"I have come," he shouted, his words rolling out like thunder, echoing around and around the sooty chamber, "But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed, this folly. As the Ring has chosen me, I claim it!" words snapped and crackled like lighting. In one fluid motion the Ring was out, flickering in the fire of its making, before it plunged down encircling Frodo's finger when both vanished.   
  
The world went silent.   
  
  
___________  
  
An all-too- familiar force grabbed Frodo's mind, shoved him away from his own eyes. Down, down he fell, scrabbling to find a purchase against the smooth wall. Just when he thought the fall would never end he felt that he had hit some sort of bottom. The world around him was inky black yet looking up he could see a dim light. In the shadows something moved. Unable to move or react he could only watch as it came for him...  
___________  
  
  
A pause....Waiting for something that would not, could not come.  
  
"Where is it, oh where is it?" Sam mouthed desperately to the deafening sound of the silence. Nothing, nothing except the silence. A sound, a noise, anything! Break the silence, break the silence...  
  
"Mr. Frodo!" Sam cried, but the sound was swallowed up in the overpowering rumble of the cavern. Desperately he stared into the blankness where is Master had been. On the edge of his hearing he could hear a keen like the sharpening of razor knives, or the whine of huge dog being called home by its master. The wind blew his hair forward...east, east... the wind was changing, blowing east!  
  
"Mr. Frodo! The Dark Lord is coming, sir, the Ringwraiths know! Oh, sir! The Dark Lord comes," he screamed hysterically into the space where Frodo had stood but there was nothing.  
  
But there was!   
  
An outline in the blooded light, a pitted shadow on the rocks and a form growing more solid. A hand here, brown locks there...   
  
"We have no reason to fear Sauron, Sam" sounded his voice but not his voice, "Sauron is a thing of the past, as the Elves shall soon be. The Ring has passed to me now," the voice said smugly. From the shadows a ghostly figure stepped, seeming to glide across the sharp surface of the jutting rock.  
  
"Mr. Frodo?" gasped Sam, his voice riddled with fear. Suddenly he was aware of the dirt in which he lay, of the tiny pebbles jutting like knives into his stomach and arms. He drew himself to his feet, not even bothering to dust himself off so great his fear and awe.  
  
"Yes, Sam," it said, a phantom hand reaching out to brush his cheek. So cold...  
  
Frodo, or what seemed to be Frodo, turned away. "Sam you know not what its like! The sheer power at my beck and call. I now know why Sauron wanted this trinket back," indicating the gold band across his third finger, "I know that and many things besides.... The Nazgûl are now mine to command, I can feel their presence in my mind growing as they draw ever closer," he laughed. Sam shivered at the sound. "Do you fear them, Sam?" Frodo asked negligently, misinterpreting Sam's shiver, "That fear is a thing of the past. I feel it as if it happened to another, a thousand years ago," he murmured. "As if it were someone else's fear and I just a passive viewer of it."  
  
"You are not yourself, Mr. Frodo," Sam said.  
  
"Of course I am myself, Sam! More myself then ever I was, for with the power of the Ring one can be whatever they wish."  
  
"Hark, the Ringwraiths draw near! Come Sam, we shall greet them!" He lightly grabbed the other's arm. Sam gasped. The strength behind that hand! Any harder and his arm would be lying on the ground in a pool of blood. He shuddered, Frodo was fully visible now and Sam had no choice but to follow. Out they walked, Frodo paying no heed to Gollum's corpse whose death grimace seemed almost to leer in triumph from beyond the grave. Sam tried to swallow his fear but it lingered hot and tasting of iron at the back of his throat. Overhead he could see the thick brown clouds that obscured the sky, heavy as if they were supported upon his back. Against them he could barely make out seven, or was it eight? V-shaped marks against the sky growing as if they were coming closer.... "Master!" he gasped.  
  
"Ah, they have arrived! And none too soon. They shall be the first besides you to swear fealty unto their new master," Frodo said.  
  
Now they were close enough that Sam could the shapes of their black cloaks against the reflected light of the clouds off Mount Doom. It was all he could do to keep from breaking down into madness as part of him longed to do, to go running, passed the stone archway, passed Gollum's rotting remains and not stop until he was poised above the Crack of Doom then to keep running; to fall down into it's depth where the Ring lay not.  
  
But the iron grip held him and his body refused to do that which his mind begged it to. And the Song? Where was the Song? When would this dreadful silence end?  
  
Sam could almost see into Nazgûl's empty cloaks when the Ring-bearer clenched his fist and punched into the air. The Ring burned gold though there was no such light to be had.  
  
"Ash nazg! Thrakatul burzum-ishi! Krimpatul agh durbatûk!" he roared at it in the snarling tongue of Mordor. Sam cried out and would have fallen had not Frodo's iron grip clutched his arm. Crazed with fear Sam clawed at Frodo's arm with his available hand like an animal caught in a trap.  
  
"Let me go, let me go! You will kill me! You will kill us all!" he cried. "We are lost, lost!" He struggled wildly then suddenly went still.   
  
This was not his master clutching his arm. His master was gone, dead, and had been since he had claimed the Ring leaving only a hollow shell now filled with the spirit of Sauron. Sam's muscles slackened in defeat and using the last of his strength he raised his eyes to face his death. For the Nazgûl were upon them.  
  
"Bow to me," called Frodo.  
  
The Nazgûl wavered uncertainly. The lead one drew his sword with a hiss.  
  
"Obey me!" screamed Frodo. "As the Lord of the Ring you must..."  
  
Down the black blade whistled through the clogged air. For a split second Frodo looked surprised before the sword slashed home. A fountain of blood spurted. The severed hand with the Ring still around the third finger had barely hit the ground before the Nazgûl, shrieking its triumph, snatched it from the ground. The Nazgûl pulled its mount to face the Northeast and with a great flap of its bat wings it was gone, returned to its master with its prize.   
  
Sam felt the Nazgûl's hand close over his shoulder in a vice-like grip, lifting his feet off the ground and swinging him up in front of it. Sam kicked and twisted but the Nazgûl was too powerful for him. All thoughts of his master forgotten he swiveled in his seat and found himself face to face with the Ringwraith. Down into the depths of its hood his eyes traveled and saw...nothing. Just a dark emptiness, as deep and black as space, that went on forever. He froze, like a mouse in the presence of a snake. Fear as he had never felt before, not even when he stood beside his master on Mt. Doom, turned his blood to ice. Then the world went black and Sam slipped into welcomed unconsciousness.   
  
Frodo found no such refuge. Inside a battle had erupted between what remained of Frodo of the Shire and the thing that had taken over when he had claimed the Ring. Both were fighting for supremacy in a body that could not house them both and Frodo watched in anxious horror as the battle was waged; fearing that if the Other should win, all would be lost.  
  
This is why Frodo was awake and conscious when he was brought before the seat of the Dark Lord.   
  
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Frodo: Ash nazg! Thrakatul burzum-ishi! Krimpatul agh durbatûk  
Translation: One Ring! Bring them all in the darkness! Bind them and rule them!  
  
We don't know that much about Black Speech so I had to work with what I had using my limited knowledge of Italian verbs to cut off endings and such. Tolkien scholars out there who are upset about my mangling of Black Speech, be gentle.   
  
I feel affronted by people who read my work and don't even bother to drop a nice note saying how they felt as much as the next author. You know who you are. So please help a poor, striving authoress and tell her what you think! :) 


	2. Where the Shadows Lie

When All Other Lights Have Gone Out

Disclaimer: All the characters and locations contained herein belong to JRR Tolkien.

A/N: It took me a year of most of this chapter sitting on my desktop but I finally reached a point where I could say there was enough that it could stand alone. I know its an embarrassingly short amount of text but I had to get SOMETHING published. As I plan more of the story I realize how big its really going to be. I love this story but its SO hard to write, the whole thing calls for my best prose and I'm not really satisfied with what's here but it will have to do.

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They musty smell of decay filled Frodo's nostrils so that he almost choked with every breath. Bile rose in the back of his throat and in his weakened state it was all he could do to keep from vomiting. He was being carried underneath the arm of one of the Nazgûl, its spiked gauntlets digging hard into his stomach. The clank of their iron boots jarred his senses with every step, until his senses were so overwhelmed he was almost delirious. The stump of his wrist pounded with pain, filling his head with its endless reverberation as the blood within sought to push its way out. Out of the ruined flesh, cauterized by the unholy fire of the Nazgûl's blade, into the empty space where his hand had once been, staining the already blood splattered floor of Barad-Dur with a fresh sacrifice. He clenched his eyes, seeking some solace in the darkness behind his eyes. But there was none to be had and there never would be again. The knowledge of his failure was inescapable, it was in every tortured breath, every rattle of the Nazgûl's boots on the unforgiving stone, and when he opened his eyes it was in the pale, limp body of Sam, corpselike against the black robes of the Ringwraith holding him. All was lost: the Ring, the Shire, the Fellowship… a solitary tear rolled down his cheek. He tasted salt on his lips and tentatively stuck his tongue out to catch the droplet. Salt water… the sea. Another tear followed the formers path. Only the Elves would escape, across the wide Sea. Gone, all gone across the Sea, Galadriel, Elrond, Arwen…if they lived. He wept quietly until a dark presence, darker even then the aura of terror that surrounded the Nazgûl, made itself known before him.  
  
Sauron! His mind shrieked in horror, darting around every which way until he was almost gibbering with witless terror. The Nazgûl pushed open the massive doors, nearly fifty feet tall covered with carvings of the blackest obsidian. At first glance it seemed as if there were Elves, almost lifelike in their poses, covering the door until you looked closer. The pictures would begin to mute and morph, the Elves' mouths would open in silent screams of terror. Limbs were cut from their bodies by invisible blades, blood spurted impossible in the stone setting. A dark cloud engulfed them and the silent scream grew louder. Then, the mist would clear and orcs…thousands of orcs would be lined up regiment after regiment, each with traces of perverted elvish beauty twisting their features. Then, if one were to lean closer you would see inside each orc the face of a screaming elf. It was all Frodo could do to keep from adding his own tortured voice to the silent chorus hidden behind the hideous masks. The doors slammed open and before he could even scream he found himself face-to-face with the Dark Lord.  
  
With sickening clarity watched as the lead Nazgal's gauntlet unfolded to reveal the Ring. Though there was no light to be seen, the Ring glimmered and its call filled the room. Lust filled Frodo's body where fear had once been. Thieves! They stole his ring! He would kill them, kill them all, yes precious, and then he would be the lord of the ring and all would bow before him…  
  
Lost in its call, Frodo did not see the semblance of a hand detached itself from the bottomless darkness that hovered over the iron throne. Had it been human it would be quivering with its own desire. The hand engulfed the Ring and silence like a bell filled the room, drawing all attention to the rejoining of ring and master.  
  
Metal like quicksilver began creeping up the shadows, forming fingers, then a hand, a wrist, an arm. As it went it hardened into a gauntlet, spiked and cruel that could as easily grip a weapon as bash a man's head in. but behind the armor the first rosy touches of flesh began to crawl after. Shadow, iron, flesh running up…up…up….reaching the center then spreading like a ghastly parody of roots, the other arm. Flesh detached itself and formed robes, first white then silver. The silver tarnished and grew black as the sky on a stormy night. bone and tendons flickered uncertainly around the face, as if trying to decide between demon or angel, eyes popped from inside the skull, changing color from starlit elven eyes, to proud Edain, then burst into flame and there was the Eye, but split in two, each glaring balefully down at the small hobbit too frozen to move.  
  
Sauron had returned.

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I feel affronted by people who read my work and don't even bother to drop a nice note saying how they felt as much as the next author. You know who you are. So please help a poor, striving authoress and tell her what you think! :)

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